Nanny Shopping
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "I could pay you double what the Rosses do." At a fashion show with Mrs. Ross, Jessie bumps into Miranda Priestly, who needs a new nanny for her twins.


Part of my series of (hopefully) unexpected crossovers. There's some slightly out-of-character behavior for Miranda in this story, since I don't think that she would ever actually bring her daughters along to a fashion show, or leave Emily in charge of them.

**-x-**

The girls don't even last for twenty minutes of the fashion show. As the insanely skinny models parade down the runway, Zuri whispers that she needs to pee, and Emma mutters that she's bored. Their mom shoots me a pleading look over their heads, and I nod at her and spring into nanny mode. I motion to the girls and lead them out of our row as quietly as I can, trying not to bump into anyone. There are a few real-live A-list celebrities here, just a few rows ahead of us, but I don't mind ducking out early. Fashion was never my thing.

Mrs. Ross had told the girls they'd probably be bored by the fashion show, but Emma wouldn't listen. She'd just read some magazine articles about Miranda Priestly, whom she described as queen of the fashion universe, and when her mom mentioned that she was attending one of Miranda's shows, she'd begged to go along, which got Zuri begging, too. So the four of us all went together, while Luke and Ravi were spending the afternoon with their dad.

We make our way out of the fashion show to the lobby outside. Even the lobby here is insanely fancy – a red carpet down the center of the room, potted plants between gleaming marble columns, and plush leather benches. After the dim lights of the show, it looks even glitzier than it did when we came in.

"Jessie, look," Emma says, nudging me. I think she's pointing to the restrooms, until she adds, "Do you see those girls? They're Miranda Priestly's kids. I didn't know they would be here."

That's when I see the two girls in the lobby – identical red-haired twins dressed in smart designer clothes. They're sitting on a bench against the wall, swinging their legs and looking bored, too. "They are?" I ask Emma. "How do you know them?"

"Duh, they go to our school."

Well, that figures. I guess all the rich Manhattan jet-setters send their kids their kids to the same expensive private school.

"And they're, like, totally snobby," Emma goes on. "I heard they don't even do their own homework. I heard their mom makes her assistants do all their homework for them, and their science projects and book reports and everything."

I hiss at Emma to be quiet. We're getting closer to the twins as we walk across the lobby, and I don't want them to overhear us. "Well, they're still younger than you, Emma," I whisper to her, "so you need to be nice to them, okay?"

"I _know_," Emma huffs, rolling her eyes, but I can tell that she means it. Emma can be _'totally snobby'_ herself sometimes, but for the most part, she's a good kid.

"Hi," I say to the twins in my safe-adult voice, when we reach the bench where they're sitting. "We're just on our way to the bathroom. Do you girls need to go, too?" As a nanny, I can always tell when kids need to go to the bathroom.

"Our mom was going to take us, but then they needed her for something backstage," one twin answers glumly, crossing her arms. She looks forlornly towards a set of double-doors labelled _Restricted,_ which I guess must lead to the backstage area of the show.

"Our mom is Miranda Priestly," the other twin brags, and I can see what Emma meant by _'totally snobby.'_ Just in case we didn't get the point, she adds, "You know,_ the_ Miranda Priestly."

Zuri, sassy as always, brags right back, "_Our_ parents are Morgan and Christina Ross."

I get ready to break up an argument over whose parents are richer and more famous, but that doesn't happen. Instead, the twins look from Emma to Zuri, frowning; of course, Emma's white and Zuri's black, so anyone can tell that they're not biologically related.

"You mean... you're sisters?" one of them asks, her eyes narrowed and skeptical. "You don't look like sisters."

"Yeah, _we_ look like sisters," the other twin says.

Emma's eyes flash angrily, but before she can say anything, I butt in. "Well, they are," I say, my voice firm but not mean. "Not all sisters are identical."

After all four girls have gone to the bathroom, Emma's anger has cooled off, and we still have time to kill before the show is over. So I dig around in my purse for something to keep the girls occupied in the lobby. As a nanny, I always have something that will do the trick. I find a deflated balloon, blow it up as big as I can, and tie it. The girls use the marble tiles on the floor as a court and start a game of balloon volleyball. The twins are a good age – about ten, a little younger than Emma, a little older than Zuri – and they play well enough together, while I supervise from one of the benches.

While they're playing, the door to backstage swings open, and a stressed-looking young woman steps out and scans the lobby. "Caroline, Cassidy!" she calls to the twins, and they leave the game to head over to her. One of them drops the balloon so suddenly that Zuri has to lunge forward to catch it.

The young woman puts one hand on her hip as she talks to the twins, looking annoyed. I can't make out what she says to them, but I hear one girl answer, "Yeah, but we didn't wander off, Emily. Mom said she was going to take us to the bathroom."

As they leave, Zuri steps forward and calls politely, "Bye, thanks for playing with us!" One girl glances over her shoulder at us, but before she can say anything, Emily has whisked them backstage and closed the door. I suddenly feel sorry for those twins, which is sort of a weird feeling, given how rich and spoiled they are.

Emma and Zuri keep playing balloon volleyball for while after the twins leave, but the game isn't as much fun with just the two of them. I can tell that Zuri is building up to her_ 'I'm bored'_ whine, and I start brainstorming for something else for them to do. But before I can come up with anything, the door to backstage opens again. The balloon drifts to the floor again, but nobody catches it this time because we're all staring at the woman who's just stepped out.

She's an older woman with sleek white hair, and somehow, I know right away that she's Miranda Priestly. It's not so much in how she's dressed, even though she's wearing an incredible gown with perfect makeup and glossy nail polish. It's more in her presence. It's in how she steps through those doors like a queen, like she's used to having everyone's attention everywhere she goes. She looks over Emma and Zuri's heads straight to me, and I feel my mouth go dry as she strides across the lobby towards me.

"My twins tell me they played some sort of game with you," she says, not bothering to greet me or introduce herself. "Involving a... balloon?" Her scoffing tone makes me wonder if she's angry with me, but I can't see why she would be. Surely she's not mad that I kept her kids entertained for a little while after she left them unsupervised?

"Balloon volleyball!" Zuri pipes up. She isn't intimidated by Miranda like Emma and me. "It's funner with four players."

But Miranda doesn't even glance at Zuri. Her gaze, much too direct, stays right on me.

"Um, yeah, I-I was just keeping an eye on them," I stammer. I usually hate name-dropping who I work for, but Miranda makes me nervous, so I add, "I'm Jessie, the nanny for Christina and Morgan Ross. And this is Emma and Zuri."

I point to the girls as I say their names, but again, Miranda can't even spare one glance at the girls that her daughters just played with.

"I've been in the market for a new nanny for my twins. I could offer double what the Rosses pay you – triple, even." She says this all casually, like dangling a huge salary in front of me is nothing at all to her, and I bite my lip, uncomfortable. The Ross kids know, of course, that their parents pay me money to be their nanny, but I don't like discussing my salary right in front of them.

Just to be polite, I pretend to think about Miranda's offer, but I don't, really. The Rosses are rich and semi-famous, sure, but they try to be down-to-earth about it, and that obviously isn't the case with Miranda Priestly. Working for her would probably be more money and fame and glamour than I would know what to do with. Besides, I really like the Ross kids. I would miss having tea parties with Zuri and helping Ravi feed his lizard.

"Thank you," I say politely to Miranda, remembering the manners that I was raised with back in Texas, "but I'm happy in my current position."

Miranda Priestly just stares at me for what feels like a long moment, saying nothing. Is she offended? Or angry? It's too hard to make out any emotions in her steely gaze. But I guess it doesn't matter, because she just gives a little scoff, then turns and disappears behind the double doors without another word. After she's gone, I let out a huge breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding, and Emma whispers, "Wow."

* * *

In the taxi ride home after the show, Mrs. Ross can't believe it when I tell her what happened. "You said no to Miranda Priestly?" she asks, incredulous. "And you lived to tell about it? That woman isn't used to hearing no."

"Yeah, I kinda got that impression."

Mrs. Ross pats my hand. "Well, I would say you dodged a bullet there, Jessie. I've heard some real horror stories about Miranda Priestly and how she treats her nannies. And her assistants. And, well, anyone who works for her, I guess."

I just smile and lean against the window as our cab moves uptown. From this angle, I can see the tops of the Manhattan skyscrapers gleaming in the sun. I stare up at them, wondering what the view from the top might look like, and wondering what it might be like inside Miranda Priestly's glamorous world. But then I tilt my head back down to appreciate the view inside the taxi – Zuri has just popped a bubblegum bubble all over her face, and Emma is laughing as she tries to peel it off – and decide that I'm happy right where I am.


End file.
